


The Pub and the Bistro

by lepetitfromage



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Holidays, M/M, Romance, restaurant AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lepetitfromage/pseuds/lepetitfromage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew's papa owns the popular French bistro, Le Petit Ange. Alfred's dad just opened The Little Soldier, the newest pub to grace the block. Francis calls them rivals. Arthur calls them enemies. Their boys are undeniably attracted to each other and one basket of French cheeses sets a less than good-natured rivalry into motion, and may just blossom into something a little more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The American and the Canadian

           “ _Papa_ , _non_ ,” Matthew groaned, shoulders sagging at the mention of another of his father’s nosy plans.

            “ _Oui, Matthieu_ ,” Francis replied, beseechingly, tying his apron strings around his hips. “I just want to know if the food is good.”

            Matthew leveled a look at him. What his papa really meant was that he wanted to know if the food was better than his.

            “They’ve just opened, “Matthew reasoned. “Let them settle in.”

            “That is why I need to know!” Francis grinned despite his son’s critical gaze. “A restaurant that can’t deliver upon opening can’t hope to beat us.”

            Matthew huffed and pushed his fingers through his hair. Francis continued to implore him with that charming smile Francis Bonnefoy was known this side of London for.

            Because he was Francis’s son, it didn’t usually work on him. But because Francis was his papa, it didn’t take long for Matthew to crack. “Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll go.”

            Francis, elated, grabbed Matthew’s face and kissed both cheeks. “ _Merci, mon ange!_ ”

            “Yeah, yeah. But I’m going to thoroughly enjoy myself while I’m there,” he countered.

            Francis laughed. “I highly doubt it, Matthieu!”

            Matthew untied his serving apron, leaving the floor to the two other wait staff, temporarily. He’d worn his bleach white button-up, black trousers, shiny black leather belt and shoes – his work uniform. He hoped the red pea coat he shrugged into on his way out made him look less like the rival spy he was reluctantly playing the part of.

            The air was brisk out on the street and Matthew mentally grumbled about his father’s half-paranoid, half-arrogant schemes.

            His target: The Little Soldier, the newest British pub to open at the end of the block.

            His mission: to test the food, to critique the interior, to get a feel for the ambience and report back to Francis. From there, Francis would decide whether this newcomer would threaten business for Le Petit Ange. Matthew was not proud to admit that this wasn’t the first time he spied for his papa. _Other restaurants do it all the time,_ Francis has said. _It’s a cutthroat business, Matthieu!_

            On the upside, Matthew always paid for these reconnaissance missions with his papa’s credit card. A free meal was nothing to simply pass up.

            The Little Soldier might have been new to the block, but it was old-school charm with modern taste. Matthew hadn’t been to too many traditional pubs in London, but this one was homey, quaint, and buzzing.

            In fact, it was almost childish, in the best possible way. This was evidenced by the photos hung in glossy wooden frames on the wall by the front door. Matthew paused to glance at them. Almost each one showed a blond boy in various stages of growth and age. The boy had a huge grin, with missing teeth in some, and was often dressed in costumes ranging from cowboy to astronaut. A man appeared in a few, most likely the boy’s father – short, messy blond hair, thick eyebrows, and the occasional closed-lipped smile. Matthew proceeded to take a seat at the bar.

            A waitress brought him a small menu, a single page front and back. He fell into critical mode while looking it over, instantly examining the dishes, making mental notes for his papa. Matthew was mildly surprised to see that the traditional pub fare, which could have seemed bland and unimportant amidst the numerous competition London had to offer, actually appeared well thought out and updated enough to stand out. He ordered and when the waitress took his menu Matthew allowed himself a look around the place.

            He gauged the atmosphere of the lunch crowd. All tables were occupied, but it wasn’t overly loud or unnervingly quiet. Everyone seemed in good cheer and the place resembled more of a lax country pub than one in the middle of a bustling city.

            Matthew reverted his gaze to the shiny, dark wood bar top and he saw the bartender moving around in his peripherals.

            “What can I get for you?” the bartender said in front of him.

            Matthew did a double take at the man in front of him. Two things caught his attention about the man in an instant. The first was his accent, which was very much American and very much unexpected. The second was his face and his grin, which Matthew matched right away to the little boy’s in the photos. Sure, the face was sharper and the missing teeth filled in, but it was certainly the same person.

            “Uh,” Matthew stammered, taken aback by this odd turn of events. “Surprise me.”

            _What the hell, Matthew?_ he chided himself. He absolutely refused to admit that his momentary lack of brain function was due to the man’s handsome face, albeit still child-like with those bright eyes behind half-frame glasses and huge grin. Instead, he told himself it was because he just wasn’t expecting an American. Definitely.

            The man laughed and said, “Alcohol, or no?”

            Matthew raised his chin and leveled a gaze at him, much like he did with his papa. “Yes, please.”

            He grinned, and blond hair fell over his forehead. “Alright.”

            He set about making Matthew’s drink and Matthew smirked. This guy thought he could smoothly get away with that?

            “So,” Matthew began innocently, crossing his arms over the bar. “The Little Soldier.”

            “Yup,” the man said with a nod.

            “I take it that’s you.” Matthew’s lips spread into a triumphant grin when the man visibly colored.

            His nervous laugh and the scratch behind his ear belied his attempt at being suave. “Ah, yeah,” he admitted. “That’s me. How’d you guess?”

            Matthew inclined his head toward the wall of photos. “You’re lucky those teeth grew in.”

            “They forced me into braces, but I think the result was worth it.” He flashed another winning smile at Matthew and Matthew began to wonder if he were flirting with him. Well, two could play that game.

            Matthew pushed his hair back, the picture of conniving casualness. “Matthew,” he offered.

            “Alfred,” the man said, pushing Matthew’s drink across the bar top.

            “You’re not a Brit,” he stated, opening up the conversation.

            Alfred’s head dipped to the side in thought. “Not really. Not by birth anyway. New York, born and raised.” Alfred pinned an inquisitive gaze on him. “I’d accuse you of the same.”

            “Montreal,” Matthew replied, glancing at him over the rim of his glass. “So, little soldier-” Alfred feigned a wince, “Is that your father in those pictures?”

            “Yeah,” he said with a breathy laugh. “It’s his place. Head chef, too. He’s a born Brit,” he explained. “Moved to New York, adopted me, and a few years ago we moved back here. Decided he didn’t like desk jobs and opened a pub. Kind of a dream of his.”

            Matthew nodded, finding himself genuinely interested. “And you?”

            “I found I didn’t like desk jobs either,” Alfred said with a wink. “Classic father-son duo, yeah?”

            Matthew smiled; they had that in common. His food arrived and it looked and smelled like classic comfort food he found himself craving. Though, nothing could compare to the comfort food his papa made – extra cheesy quiche Lorraine and the fluffiest, full-to-bursting omelets were among his favorites.

            Matthew dug in, not at all perturbed that Alfred had remained. “This is good,” he said with gusto.

            Alfred smiled. “I’ll tell my dad of your high praise. Though between you and me,” he leaned forward, conspiratorially, “He can’t cook anything else. His burgers are an insult to my poor American forefathers, he burns fried rice, mutilates curry, and any Frenchman would have his head.”

            Matthew couldn’t help his snicker, his own papa would most likely be that Frenchman. “You’re secret is safe with me.”

            “Good.”

            Matthew swallowed and leaned away from Alfred’s face, which he belatedly realized was only a foot from his. Alfred returned to making patrons’ drinks with a sparkling side-glance sent Matthew’s way, and Matthew continued eating with a barely concealed flush. Damn, that boy was handsome.

 

            Matthew had entertained light conversation with Alfred once there was another lull in drink orders before leaving.

            Back in his own restaurant Matthew hung his coat in the back and collapsed into a booth now that the lunch service was over. Francis was quick to slide in on the other side, a sly smile on his face.

            “Well?” Francis prompted. “ _Matthieu, chouchou_ , what is it like?”

            Matthew was about to say friendly, unexpected, attractive, but realized that those were words that better described the pub’s charming bartender rather than the pub itself. His papa did _not_ need to know that he was flirting on a mission. Lord knew he’d never hear the end of it. And not in an admonishing way, either.

            “ _Tell me! Who is he, mon ange? What is he like? Are you seeing him? You should bring him for dinner! Papa knows just how to set the mood for love!_ ” Matthew shuddered, he could practically hear him already.

            Matthew shifted his thoughts from Alfred to what he remembered of the pub. “The inside was nice and the food was really good.”

            Francis’s smile fell and he pouted. “That’s not what I want to hear.”

            Matthew shrugged, smiling. “I told the truth. It looks like you’ve got some competition this time, Papa.”

            “These Brits wouldn’t know good food even if it jumped into their mouths.”

            Matthew laughed and patted his papa on the shoulder as he stood. “That’s why you’re here to save the day.”

 

~

 

            Alfred was still thinking of Matthew a day later. It’d been a while since he’d successfully flirted with someone who flirted back. Matthew, with his wavy blond hair, big, light eyes, and slim frame, seemed like a delicate kind of guy on sight, but after talking with him Alfred learned that he indeed had some spine and a snarky tendency to boot. And Alfred found the combination something he was attracted to.

            But it wasn’t like his dad needed to know or he’d never hear the end of it. And not in a gushing, tell-me-everything way either.

            “ _You’ve got to be wary of people, Alfred_ ,” Arthur would say. “ _Especially men_ ,” he’d spit. So a couple of his dad’s boyfriends turned out to be assholes. Alfred held a considerably more positive view in that regard.

            Besides, this was just a passing flirtation. Matthew didn’t say he’d return, and Alfred didn’t suggest it. Though he hoped he’d been charming enough to get Matthew to come back on his own.

            It was noon and the lunch crowd was moseying in. Alfred assumed his post behind the bar next to the second bartender, Liam.

            “Alfred,” his father called, coming out of the kitchen.

            “Yeah, Dad?” he answered.

            “I have a job for you.”

            “Besides the one I’m paid to do?”

            Arthur shot him a dry glare. “Witty. I need you to do a little investigating.”

            “Investigating?”

            “Yes, boy, I want you to… do some research about the other restaurants around here.”

            “Dad,” Alfred whined like a child. “I wrote enough in university. There’s a reason I didn’t get great marks on my papers.”

            “Not that kind of research!” Arthur waved his hand impatiently, used to the way Alfred’s brain worked. “I mean I want you to go to that French bistro-” these words he said as if it were a revolting brothel and not a refined eatery, “down the street and see how they stack up.”

            “Oh,” Alfred said, perking up at the mention of eating. “Are you paying?”

            “Yes,” Arthur sighed, handing him his credit card.

            “I’m going alone?”

            “You’re a big lad, you’ll survive.” He rolled his eyes before grumbling, “Though I can’t say you’ll survive whatever frog-food they serve.”

            His father’s grumblings went unacknowledged, like always, and Alfred skipped around the bar to grab his jacket from the hook by the door.

            “Thanks! Be back in a bit!”

            With the thought of a free meal keeping a smile on his face and a bounce in his step, Alfred pushed open the door to Le Petit Ange. Somewhere in the back of his brain he knew it meant The Little Angel.

            The interior was certainly angelic. The space was bright, uncluttered, and clean. The hostess led him to a pristine, white table-clothed two-top near the windows, the booths already filled.

            He read the menu, a small bistro menu with an extensive wine list. Alfred didn’t know very much about wine.

            His gaze shifted to a movement at the kitchen door. A man, a waiter, opened the door with his back, balanced on his hand was a glass of sparkling water on a tray.

            Alfred’s mouth fell open. He’d been thinking about that wavy blond hair all day.

            The fates confirmed his suspicion when the man turned around, and there was Matthew, handsomely dressed in a trim, white button up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and black slacks. Alfred swallowed and automatically wiped his hands on his jeans.

            Matthew locked eyes with him and he stumbled a bit, righting himself quickly and proceeding straight-backed to Alfred’s table.

            “Matt,” Alfred greeted with a grin.

            “Alfred,” Matthew replied, more shocked than Alfred was surprised. Matthew seemed to remember his duties and placed the glass in front of him before resuming his unmoving stance, eyes scaling Alfred up and down.

            Then Matthew did something that took Alfred off guard. He cocked his head to the side, his hair swaying, his eyes slyly narrowing behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a knowing smile curled his lips. “Are you spying for your father?”

            His handsome face and his playful accusation had Alfred dropping his jaw with nothing to say and a light blush betraying his effort to stay composed.

            He uttered a few embarrassing sounds before it clicked in his head. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Yesterday, were _you_ spying?”

            He succeeded in making Matthew stutter and the sly look in his eye was replaced with doe-eyed bewilderment.

            “No, I…” Matthew tried. He sighed. “Fine, yes, I was.”

            “Well,” Alfred snickered. “We’ve both been caught. No reason to keep up any pretenses. Did your boss send you to our place?”

            “Ah, yeah.” Matthew rubbed the back of his neck. “My boss would be my father. He’s the owner and executive chef.”

            Another thought clicked in Alfred’s mind and he smiled mischievously. “Let me guess, you’re _le petit ange_?”

            At this, Matthew visibly flushed and rolled his eyes. “Papa is fond of pet names. And your pronunciation is horrible.”

            Alfred laughed, glad he wasn’t the only victim of embarrassing fatherly quirks. “Well French was never encouraged in my home, so my apologies.”

            Matthew’s lips quirked up. “We’ll just see what you think, then. What will you have?”

            Alfred glanced dumbly at the menu once more. “I won’t try to pronounce half the things on this menu, so surprise me,” he said with a wink, mimicking Matthew’s words from the previous day.

            Their flirtation picked up where it left off at the bar and Alfred was relieved. Maybe this time he could get Matthew’s number out of it. Matthew left his table with the promise of a worthy surprise.

            Alfred liked what he saw in the bistro. It was warm, inviting, and customers were enjoying themselves with laughter and conversation. Alfred sipped at his glass, gazing out the window and watching people pass by. Inside, Matthew navigated gracefully from table to table, taking plates and glasses away.

            When he returned with his food, Alfred’s eyes lit with the voracious hunger he was known for.

            “I’m sticking to classics with you, since I doubt you’ve had experience with French food,” Matthew said playfully.

            Alfred shook his head. “Dad is a Brit through and through.”

            Matthew set an aromatic soup in front of him, and his mouth watered. “French onion soup, first,” he said. “As it should taste.”

            Alfred smiled in response to Matthew’s genuine pride. Matthew left him once again and Alfred tasted the soup. And Alfred thought he might never leave. If this was only the first course, then Alfred was prepared to set up camp.

            Matthew returned once he had finished, an expectant look shining behind his glasses. “Well?”

            Alfred held his chin in his hand, faux dreaminess softening his gaze on Matthew. “Can your dad adopt me?”

            Matthew chuckled and Alfred liked the way his eyes crinkled. “It’s a little late for that. I’ll be out with your main in a moment.”

            Matthew’s choice of main course didn’t disappoint either. “Beef Bourguignon,” he said, placing it in front of Alfred. “Perfect for a chilly day like today.”

            Alfred’s father made plenty of stews, and they were a favorite of Alfred’s, but this one was something else. He loved it and showered more praise onto Matthew when he returned.

            Dessert was what launched Alfred’s opinion of the bistro into the stars.

            “And last, you can’t go wrong with crème brûlée.” Matthew stayed this time, watching Alfred’s higher brain function cease.

            “I’m never going to leave,” Alfred stated.

            “I don’t think your dad would appreciate that,” Matthew replied.

            Alfred waved a hand, “He’ll get over it.” He looked at the time and winced. “Though I am actually supposed to get back to work. Dad sent me over here before I could start.”

            “Then I’ll be right back with the check.”

            Alfred wasn’t too sure – he was still riding his high from dessert – but Matthew sounded extra flirty.

            His suspicions were correct when Matthew gave him the small black folder and sent one last wink over his shoulder as he breezed by. On the customer receipt, Matthew had written his number and “ _I get off at 10_.”

            Alfred grinned at the elegant script.

 

            “What took you so long? Did you get lost?” Arthur teased as Alfred hung his coat at the door and skirted the bar.

            He sighed, partly because of his undeniable crush on Matthew and partly because of the delicious food.

            “So what’s it like over there?” Arthur began apprehensively.

            “Wonderful, elegant, fascinating,” he replied dreamily. Arthur scoffed and Alfred realized those words described Matthew, not necessarily the restaurant. But his dad didn’t seem to notice.

            “The damn frog has the best reviews around here too. We’re just going to have to show them.”

            Alfred would show him alright.

 

~

 

            At 9:30, Matthew received a text from Alfred.

            _Clocked out. Pick u up for a drink at 10?_

Matthew smiled. _Love to_.

            “Oh, Mathieu,” he heard his papa’s sing-song voice. “Any plans for tonight?”

            He glanced up and Francis wore the most cunning smile. “I don’t know what you mean, Papa.”

            “You can’t fool me,” Francis said sweetly. “That is the smile of someone talking with their _petit_.”

            Sometimes, Matthew preferred outing it to Francis’s often torturous inquisitions. “We’re just going out for drinks. I only met him yesterday.”

            “And who might this be?”

            “Um,” Matthew wavered. “His name is Alfred.” Francis didn’t need to know he was the son of his rival.

            Matthew was surprised. He expected twenty questions from his papa but Francis only smiled proudly and resumed closing the kitchen. Thankfully, he stayed out of sight when Matthew spotted Alfred waiting under the awning right at 10.

            Matthew traded his serving apron for his red coat and called out a good-night to Francis before leaving.

            “So,” Alfred began as they walked to a bar a couple blocks away. “Did you tell your dad I was there today?”

            Matthew glanced at him, noting that now that they were standing next to each other, they were practically the same height. He laughed a little. “No, I didn’t. Did you tell your dad I was there?”

            “Nope,” Alfred smiled. “It’s probably for the best. Dad would start World War III if he knew I were fraternizing with the enemy.” At this he winked a blue eye and Matthew found he liked that shade of blue. Bright as the sky on a summer day.

            He didn’t think his papa would start World War III, per se, but he definitely didn’t see the need for him to know their goings-on.

            He dryly wondered how long that would last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first work, transposed to AO3 from FF.


	2. The Englishman and the Frenchman

Matthew had been seeing Alfred for two weeks. They started by going out for drinks each night after they clocked out. At the end of the first week, Alfred took him on an actual date. They went to the movies, and Matthew didn’t mind in the slightest. After a full week of getting to know each other, he found it nice to sit next to him in relative privacy, and sharing popcorn was a good excuse to lean closer to him. After, they walked around the area, venturing through parks, and Alfred made a move. It was the first time he held Matthew’s hand and as their fingers twined Matthew smiled down at them, liking the warmth of Alfred’s palm.

            They talked casually, yet he could hear the smile in Alfred’s voice as they walked without a destination. At the end of the night, in front of Matthew’s flat, Matthew kissed his cheek before saying good night.

            Two nights later, on a bridge overlooking the glittering Thames, Alfred rubbed the back of Matthew’s hand with his thumb and asked him softly, “May I kiss you?”

            A slow smile alighted on his face and he nodded, leaning into the press of Alfred’s lips.

            The night he kissed Matthew Alfred brought up dating exclusively. 

            “I know it might seem a bit early, but I like you, Matt,” he’d said.

            “Not at all,” Matthew replied. “I like you too, Al.”

 

~

 

            There was something going on, Francis knew, and he had a good idea of what it was.

            For a whole week, his Matthieu walked as if on air and had a dreamy look to his eyes. He was sure it was because of the boy he was texting the previous week.

            Francis sighed. He admitted that he could be a little pushy and a little exuberant when it came to his son’s potential love-interests, but now that Matthieu was actually seeing somebody he couldn’t help but be curious and skeptical of this boy.

            This boy, Alfred, it seemed. Matthieu hadn’t told him much beyond his name and a bit of his personality, and Francis tried to be respectful and not pepper him with questions. As long as his Matthieu was happy.

            Francis sighed again. He tucked his chin into his scarf as he made his early morning stroll to the market. It was Friday morning and he was preparing for the weekend ahead. He’d have to buy enough meats and supplement some vegetables.

            He arrived at his butcher’s, the stocky man greeting Francis with a wave. Another man stood in front of the glass case, eyes on the meat. His hands were in the pockets of his trench coat and his blond hair looked a little messy.

            “The usual for you, Francis?” the butcher asked between hacks of the cleaver.

            “Yes, _merci_.”

            The slightly shorter blond man turned his face away from him.

            The butcher washed his hands and scrawled on a receipt, pushing it across the counter to the man next to Francis. “That’s for The Little Soldier, right?” the butcher confirmed.

            The man nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he said in his clipped accent.

            “Good day, Mr. Kirkland.”

            Francis stared after “Mr. Kirkland” in awe. The butcher had just said The Little Soldier. Francis’s competition on the block. He quickly confirmed his order, hastily signing the receipt and jogging out the door to the man walking the way he came.

            “Mr. Kirkland!” Francis called, figuring he’d use the name he heard.

            The man stopped and turned, surprised. “Yes?”

            “I am sorry to stop you like this, but you’re from The Little Soldier, no?”

            Kirkland eyed him up and down. “I am. Owner and head chef.”

            Francis beamed. “You don’t say? You just opened shop not long ago, yes?”

            Kirkland’s demeanor was strict politeness. “A couple weeks ago, yes.”

            “Where are my manners,” Francis laughed. He offered his hand. “Francis Bonnefoy. I… run a restaurant in the area. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

            Kirkland shook his hand with the look of a wary animal in his eye. “Arthur Kirkland. Charmed,” he responded, dryly. “I’m afraid I must get going, though.”

            “Of course.” Francis released his hand. “Maybe I will see you soon?”

            Arthur made a noncommittal noise and nodded.

            “ _À bientôt!_ ”

            Arthur didn’t turn back.

            Francis hummed and wandered his way back to the vegetable stands. He found Arthur… intriguing. Not only was he his restaurant rival, fellow owner and chef, he had quite the interesting face also. Formidable eyebrows above piercing green eyes. Shaggy blond hair that was more cute than sloppy. And did he ever look good in that trench.

           

~

 

            The name Francis Bonnefoy rang a small bell somewhere in the recesses of Arthur’s mind. But since he was in a hurry and he frankly didn’t care, he dropped the thought.

            Until he started receiving gift baskets. Bloody gift baskets.

            The next day, in the late morning before The Little Soldier opened for lunch, a deliveryman presented Arthur with a woven basket wrapped in clear cellophane. Inside the basket was a small assortment of cheeses, crackers, and a bottle of French wine.

            A small card accompanied the garish presentation. Arthur snatched it and read the curling handwriting.

            _Congratulations on your grand opening! As neighbors, I hope we can put this gift basket to use and have a lovely conversation over its contents!_

_Yours ever more, chef and owner of Le Petit Ange_

Arthur’s face burned with embarrassment and irrational anger. This was his competition! His rival! Who was this prick sending him this… this challenge!

            Well there was one thing Arthur had to do. He couldn’t sit there and meekly accept this ridiculous basket. He grabbed the basket off the table and marched out of The Little Soldier. He yanked open the door to Le Petit Ange, brimming with annoyance.

            “Excuse me!” Arthur called out to the empty space.

            When two men appeared from the kitchen, Arthur’s blind fury skidded to an abrupt halt. The first man was much younger and wore glasses, but bore a remarkable resemblance to the man following him.

            And that man was Francis Bonnefoy, the cad who introduced himself at the butcher’s of all places.

            While Francis’s face lit with a shining smile and a twinkle in his eye, all of Arthur’s criticisms and witty comebacks fled his brain, leaving him staring dumbly.

            “Arthur, _mon ami_! I see you received my gift!” he said cheerfully.

            “You- I-…. What-”

            “Papa, what-”

            “Matthieu, _mon ange_ , I present Arthur Kirkland, owner and chef of The Little Soldier.”

            Arthur continued to struggle to produce words as Francis yammered to his supposed son.

            Finally, he was able to eek out, “You! _You’re_ the owner of this place?”

            Francis grinned proudly. “I am. I told you I owned a restaurant around here.”

            “But you didn’t say it was… this place!”

            “Arthur, _cher_ , no need to sound so surprised!” Francis laughed. The boy, Matthew, looked a little confused. Francis turned to Matthew and said, “We met at Eddie’s yesterday morning. I found out he was the owner of that little pub down the street so I thought I’d send a welcome gift!”

            “Papa…”

            Arthur thrust the basket forward. “What is the meaning of this anyway? Are you trying to poison me with your frog cheeses?”

            Francis was unfazed. Arthur stared in bewilderment. “Not at all, _cher_ ,” he said, still smiling. “I simply wanted to formally welcome you, and offer a chance to get to know one another.”

            Arthur continued to glare, speechless. Who was this man with his stubbled chin, long glossy blond hair, and sparkling blue eyes? Arthur unceremoniously dropped the basket onto a nearby table and on his way out the door grumbled, “I don’t need your patronizing.”

 

~

 

            Matthew’s gaze flit cautiously between the irate Arthur and his calm papa. When Arthur stormed out, leaving the gift basket on a table, he swallowed and prepared to comfort Francis.

            But Francis laughed. “He’s a feisty one, isn’t he?”

            Dumbfounded, Matthew opened his mouth and a moment later said, “You gave him a gift basket? Of French cheeses?”

            “Matthieu, that man is so stuffy I knew he would come marching over as soon as he got it. Call it a game, call it war, but I’m having fun so far.”

            Matthew was worried for a whole new reason. The man that just stomped into their bistro was Alfred’s father. Arthur and Francis knew, or knew of, each other now. He wondered if it were time to let the cat out of the bag.

            “Papa, are you going to keep terrorizing Arthur?” he asked.

            Oblivious to Matthew’s train of thought, Francis hummed and grinned. “Perhaps. He looks fun to play with.”

            Matthew shut his eyes and exhaled. He knew what this meant. Francis had a little crush on the man.

            Matthew managed to make it through his shift without dwelling on the morning’s happenings. He’d save that for tonight.

            In his flat, he sat on the couch in his Canadian hoodie and sweatpants, game controller in his hands, and Alfred’s head in his lap. Alfred had one leg tossed over the back of the couch and the other foot dangling off the arm. His thumbs darted furiously over the controls of his hand-held console.

            However, a few battles hadn’t taken his mind off his papa and Arthur.

            “Hey, Al,” he began, pausing the game.

            “Yeah,” Alfred responded, the sounds of his own fight playing.

            “Papa sent your dad a gift basket.”

            Alfred dropped the game on his face. He rubbed his nose and looked up at Matthew’s. “What?” he said incredulously.

            “They’ve met now.”

            “Whoa, back up. What happened?”

            “Apparently,” Matthew began on a preparatory inhale, combing his fingers through Alfred’s hair, “Yesterday they met at the market, and Papa found out he was the owner of your place. This morning he sent Arthur a ‘welcome’ basket.”

            Alfred cringed. “What was in it?”

            “French cheeses and wine.”

            Alfred dragged a hand down his face and laughed. “Oh, I bet he didn’t like that.”

            Matthew found it in himself to laugh at the absurdity too. “I don’t think so. He came storming into the bistro and accused Papa of attempted poisoning.”

            “That sounds like him.” Alfred paused and said, “Hmm. That also explains why he was muttering to himself all day.”

            “Really?”

            “He was going on about ‘bloody Frenchman’ this and ‘shave that stupid goatee’ that.”

            Matthew hummed in understanding, Francis’s last words coming to mind.

            “What’re you thinking about?” Alfred asked.

            “I’m thinking Papa is trying to flirt with your dad.”

            They simultaneously cringed.

            “Wait,” Matthew interjected, missing an important piece of information for this assumption to be true. “Is your dad gay?”

            Alfred nodded deeply. “Arthur Kirkland is an emotionally constipated gay man with a short fuse and an inherent suspicion of all things non-British.”

            Matthew groaned. “Papa is going to chase your dad into the ground.”

            Alfred watched Matthew and Matthew looked down to Alfred.

            Then they burst into laughter.

 

~

 

            The second gift basket came a few days later. Alfred watched in fascination as his dad stammered and spewed.

            “What’d you get?” Alfred asked, holding back a grin as he laid half over the bar.

            “He sent me chocolates! And more of this godforsaken wine!”

            “What kind of chocolate?”

            “Alfred!”

            This time he laughed. “Dad, it’s not that big of a deal.”

            “He wrote, ‘My door is always open, darling. Please accept a peace offering,’” he said as if the words were a death warrant. “Alfred stop laughing!”

            Alfred wiped a tear from his eye and said, “He’s trying to be nice. Why not just accept it?”

            “I can’t very well accept it. You’re supposed to be on my side anyway.”

            Alfred lifted his hands. “I’m Switzerland. Hey, Dad, do you have, you know, a crush on him?”

            He hesitated for a second, but a second was all Alfred needed. Arthur could vehemently protest all he liked. Alfred was sure that Francis was getting under Arthur’s skin – in perhaps a good way.

            Though Arthur being Arthur, he wouldn’t give in easily.

            Maybe it was time to doing something more about it. So that night Alfred collapsed into his bed next to an exhausted Matthew. They’d both worked late shifts and Matthew couldn’t be bothered to trudge home at this time of night.

            “It’s true,” Alfred said, staring at the ceiling.

            “What is?” Matthew groaned sleepily.

            Alfred rolled into his side, propped his head with a hand, and was momentarily distracted. Matthew was wearing his huge red sweatshirt, lying on his stomach with his arms wrapped around the pillow. He never understood how he could sleep with it on. Alfred would be boiling by morning.

            “What’s true?” Matthew repeated, cracking an eye open.

            “My dad is crushing on yours.”

            Matthew lifted his face from the pillow.

            “Francis sent him another gift basket. Chocolates. He flew into a tirade.”

            Matthew’s face dropped back to the pillow. “It’s like _we’re_ their parents,” came his muffled voice.

            “Do you think we should tell them?” Alfred asked. “That we’re dating? Maybe they’ll calm down.”

            “If anything it’ll give Papa an easier in.” Matthew propped himself up on his elbows. “But I think we should, yeah. It’s about time.”

            Alfred smiled and snaked his arm around Matthew’s waist. Matthew kissed the tip of his nose and flicked off his bedside lamp.

 

~

 

            On the third gift basket, this time modestly composed of a small bouquet of flowers, another bottle of bloody wine, and a handwritten card, Arthur accepted. Though he wouldn’t concede. The acceptance was more due to the turn of events regarding his son.

            Because he was a skeptical sort of man, but a fair one when it came to situations like this, he reserved judgments of Matthew until he met the lad. Alfred had prefaced the request to meet Matthew with the fact that he was Francis’s son. He vaguely remembered seeing the boy the first time he strode into Le Petit Ange.

            However much Arthur wanted to find any reason to justify never seeing Francis again, Matthew was, frankly, a delight. The boy may have looked like his father but he had a good head on his shoulders and was – blessedly – more modest than his father.

            In fact, he looked forward to seeing Matthew again.

            Now he just had to deal with his tit of a father. His annoyingly friendly, sickeningly sweet father.

            _Focus, Kirkland._

            It was morning, and this time when he walked into Le Petit Ange he pushed the door open quietly. But Francis was already there.

            “Arthur! Welcome!” he said breezily. “Please, take a seat, I’ll be out in a moment.”

            Arthur rolled his eyes and sat at the table Francis gestured to. Francis disappeared into the back and Arthur picked a spot of lint from the immaculate tablecloth.

            Francis returned and Arthur almost walked out. The man was carrying two domed platters – who even has those? – and set one in front of Arthur. He then revealed a sweet-smelling crepe and a small cup of fruit. Lastly, he set in front of Arthur a tall flute of what appeared to be a mimosa.

            “What is this?” Arthur questioned, unamused.

            “Breakfast,” Francis replied easily. “Seeing as you have accepted my third offer, I thought I’d treat you.”

            “You knew I was coming?”

            “Third time is a charm.” His grin seemed to brighten the room. Disgusting.

            Arthur shook his head, no energy to fight on that one. “The boys must have spoken with you.”

            Francis nodded. “They have. Your Alfred is quite the young man.”

            “I hope you mean that positively.”

            He laughed, cutting into his crepe with a fork. “Of course I do. They seem to fit, no?”

            Arthur thought back their meeting. “They do.” He huffed at his plate, grudgingly picking up his fork and admitting to no one but himself that the crepe was delicious. “So why have you wanted to talk to me so badly?”

            Francis sipped at his mimosa and gazed out the window. “Well, as fellow chefs and business owners, I see no reason for _us_ not to get to know one another, especially now that the boys are together.”

            “There’s plenty of other restaurants around the neighborhood for you to cozy up with.”

            “Ah, but none of them have you, _cher_.”

            Arthur furrowed his brow, feeling his stomach flip. “I beg your pardon?”

            Francis nodded to Arthur’s empty plate. “You’ve obviously enjoyed my cooking, for one.” Arthur stubbornly pushed the plate an inch away from him. Francis laughed. “I would be interested in trying the food you make, by your invitation, of course.”

            Invite _Francis_ to a meal? He wanted Arthur to stoop to his level?

            “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” he said, crossing his arms.

            Francis only continued to smile. It did look rather good on him. For pure aesthetic reasons, of course.

            Arthur folded his napkin on the table and stood. “We’ll see,” he said. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfactory of an answer right at that moment.

            “I eagerly await, _cher_.”

            Arthur left the bistro, heading back to the pub with an odd sort of jump in his stomach.

 

~

 

            The next day, Francis unlocked Le Petit Ange and found a small, nondescript envelope taped to the door. The schooled handwriting on it simply read, “Francis.”

            Francis sighed and hung his coat on the rack by the door. He sat at a nearby table and read the note Arthur sent.

            _I’ll show you why The Little Soldier is a hit, frog. 10’o’clock._

Francis smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies!


	3. The Younger and the Older

All was quiet for a month after.

            To Matthew, it was suspicious. But only slightly.

            He was too wrapped up in work, Alfred, work, Alfred to pick up on the subtleties. It was also December and the pressure of the forthcoming holidays sent his brain into a tizzy. _What am I going to get Papa? What about Alfred?_

            Francis already had the kitchen gadgets he wanted, otherwise he stayed pretty traditional when it came to cooking and his personal style was so particular. He supposed what he really wanted to give him was a vacation, perhaps back to Paris to visit some extended family, but that would eat too much out of his holiday budget.

            Alfred wasn’t picky when it came to gifts, which made Matthew’s job that much more frustrating. There was that new video game on a holiday release that Alfred wanted. Then there was a sleek, titanium wristwatch he saw in a high-end catalog that he thought would suit him. But then he thought a leather banded watch might suit him better. Was that too much for a two-month old relationship? Would Alfred feel awkward? But it would look so _good_ on him.

            “Earth to Mattie,” Alfred’s voice faded in. He poked the space between Matthew’s eyebrows. “You get this cute little wrinkle when you’re thinking.”

            Matthew swatted his hand away and tried to look annoyed. “It’s not cute.”

            Alfred chuckled. They were on the tube, Alfred’s arm wrapped around Matthew’s shoulders. It was one of their coinciding days off work and they were going on a date to the ice rink.

            “What’s up?” Alfred asked.

            Matthew pouted at nothing in particular. “What do you want for Christmas?” he responded, watching Alfred’s face fall blank.

            “Christmas?” He repeated, the smallest bit of panic bursting in his eyes. Now _that_ was cute, Matthew thought. “Uh, you? Forever and always?”

            He actually had to laugh. “Thanks for that heartfelt honesty, Al, but it wasn’t a test.”

            Alfred squeezed him closer. “Are you really worried about what to get me?”

            “I just want some kind of idea.”

            “Matt, I’d be happy with a Hershey bar and your maple-drowned pancakes. But since I can’t get one of those, I’d settle for some Grade-A maple.”

            Matthew nudged him with his shoulder. He should have figured that food would triumph over all with Alfred. “You don’t ‘settle’ for maple syrup.”

            Alfred flashed a wicked grin. “I wasn’t talking about syrup,” he said before nipping Matthew’s ear.

            Matthew scrunched his shoulders, and his effort to keep from laughing aloud produced a snort. He skittered away from Alfred’s taking advantage of one of his tickle spots when the train pulled into their station. He stood and hauled Alfred from the seat and hand-in-hand they walked to the rink.

            At the skate rental counter, Alfred peered beyond the little shack to watch the rink with bright eyes. “It’s been years since I’ve skated,” he said.

            “Me too,” Matthew agreed.

            “Didn’t you play hockey in college?”

            Matthew raised a brow. “Hockey is different than just skating.”

            Alfred swallowed and Matthew looped their arms, tugging an anxious Alfred to the benches to lace up.

            “I trust you won’t fall on your ass?” Matthew teased, stepping onto the ice first.

            Alfred scoffed and, full of bravado, managed not to wobble too much. “I’m not _that_ inept, thank you.”

            Still, he clutched Matthew’s hands and Matthew felt a burst of pride and something fuzzy and warm in his chest. He held Alfred’s hands, skating backwards as Alfred got used to the movements.

            “In Montreal,” he began, smiling with the memory, “hockey rinks would pop up around the city in the winters. We’d get a group of us to play, or join in other’s matches. There was always food after, whether it was noon or midnight. Those were some of my favorite times. Playing with friends or total strangers. I never could get Papa to even step foot on the ice,” he laughed.

            “I think if I’d been around the ice more I would have tried it,” Alfred pondered, eyes on his feet. “I think I tried almost every sport growing up.”

            Matthew squeezed his hands, a reminder to keep Alfred’s eyes off the ground. But then there was that issue of Alfred gazing right into Matthew’s.

            “I went to university in London, you know, and we moved here from the U.S. in the summer between first and second year. The last thing I did was play on the intermural football team.”

            Matthew thought that he’d liked to have seen that. Alfred in a jersey. And shorts. A little shiny with sweat.

            “Whoa, watch out,” Alfred moved his hands up to secure Matthew’s shoulders. He’d almost run into someone behind him.

            They took a few more turns around the rink before turning in their skates and huddling together at a table near the shack selling hot cocoa. Alfred bought both their drinks, Matthew’s with extra marshmallows.

            “Here I brought you on a date and you totally show me up with your skills,” he said.

            Matthew snickered. “If you wanted to show off so badly, you came to the wrong place.”

            Alfred harrumphed and folded Matthew into his arms. Matthew leaned forward into the embrace, pressing a kiss to his jaw, at the hollow below his ear. His skin was a bit chilled.

            “Thank you, Al,” he said, resting his cheek on Alfred’s shoulder. “You skated very nicely.”

            Alfred smiled. “I’m glad I didn’t disappoint.”

            “Never.”

            Alfred, the little sneak that he was, took the opportunity to quickly snatch a kiss from Matthew.

 

~

 

            Alfred moaned pathetically, his head throbbing.

            “Mattie, my head’s throbbing,” he complained through nasal congestion.

            “I gave you ibuprofen only ten minutes ago. It’ll kick in.”

            “I want beef stew.”

            “I already called your dad too.”

            “You did?”

            “Yes, Al, an hour ago.”

            Alfred shivered under his blanket and burrowed his face into Matthew’s abdomen. He lay with his head in his lap, dozing in and out while Matthew’s fingers brushed his temple. He tried to sniff through his plugged nose, but the congestion wouldn’t move.

            Three precise knocks on the door sounded and Matthew made to get up. Alfred groaned even louder and clutched the hem of his shirt.

            “Al, I need to let your dad in.”

            Reluctantly, Alfred let go of Matthew, wishing he hadn’t had him call Arthur.

            “Hi, Arthur,” he heard Matthew say. “Thanks for this, he was whining all afternoon.”

            “Hey,” Alfred weakly protested from the couch.

            Footsteps neared Alfred’s couch and then his dad was hovering over his face. “Christ, Alfred, what did you do? Swim in the Thames?”

            “We went ice skating last night,” Matthew supplied. “Doofus didn’t wear a scarf or gloves or anything.”

            Arthur made a noise of understanding. “Not the first time he’s done that.”

            “I’m dying and all you two can do is criticize me.”

            “You’ve just got a head cold,” Matthew said, but returned to the couch so Alfred could nuzzle into his side again.

            “Well, as long as you’re not dying I brought the stew you asked for,” Arthur said.

            “Beef stew?” Alfred perked up and made a big production of sitting up.

            “Stew without the beef,” Arthur corrected. “Extra veg. You shouldn’t tackle chunks of meat while you’re sick.”

            Alfred groaned but no one listened.

            “Also, Francis made this for you,” he said, and Alfred didn’t see the way Matthew’s eyebrow shot up. “He said it was split pea soup.”

            “Papa used to make that for me all the time.”

            Alfred blinked, concentrating on the blurry Tupperware in front of him. “I can’t see it.” Matthew slid his glasses onto his face. “Oh, it looks good.”

            “Yes, well,” Arthur glanced around and busied himself with procuring a bowl and spoon from the small kitchen. “Let me just heat this up for you and I’ll leave you be.”

            Alfred soon had a steaming bowl of his father’s beef(less) stew and he dug in with as much relish as a sick man could muster.

            Finally, Arthur mussed his hair. He’d done that whenever Alfred was sick for as long as he could remember. “Make sure he doesn’t strain himself,” Arthur told Matthew.

            Matthew laughed. “The only thing he’ll be straining is my patience.” Alfred was too hungry to protest.

            Though after Arthur left, and his bowl was empty, he rewrapped himself in the blanket and cuddled up to Matthew. Matthew situated them so that he was curled into his chest and his arms around Alfred added that little extra warmth he was looking for.

            When Matthew’s fingers combed gently through his hair, he asked, “Am I annoying you?”

            His fingers never paused. “No, Al, you’re not.”

            “I don’t want to get you sick though.”

            “I haven’t gotten sick in years. I’ll be okay.”

            “Okay.”

            “Do you want me to get you anything else?”

            “No,” he said quickly, keeping Matthew from moving. “Don’t go anywhere.”

            Alfred felt lips press a kiss to the top of his head. “I won’t, Al.”

            He was dozing, and falling fast as his muscles relaxed. “I’m gonna take a nap now,” he mumbled.

            “I’ll be here.”

 

~

 

            It was nearing 10 when Arthur returned to Francis’s flat. Francis was at the kitchen table, reading a book. He looked up when Arthur came in and draped his coat over the back of one of the chairs.

            “I’m sorry,” Arthur began, sitting at the table, but Francis waved him off.

            “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “How is he?”

            “He’ll be fine. Matthew explained it; he caught a head cold from ice skating last night.”

            “Oh really? Matthieu’s taking care of him then? Good.”

            “That he is.”

            Francis smiled, remembering something. “I used to worry all the time that Matthieu would get sick from playing hockey outside in the winter. Montréal is one of the coldest places I’ve ever been.”

            Arthur stood from the table and maneuvered himself around Francis’s kitchen, flicking on the burner to heat the stovetop kettle. He knew in which cabinets to find mugs and the meager selection of tea Francis kept. But his cold hands wanted to wrap around something warm.

            “Matthew was raised there?”

            Francis nodded. “Born, too. I met his mother there and I stayed. Montréal was good to us.” He laughed. “Though Matthieu picked up that horrible Québécois.”

            “What happened?” Arthur asked, leaning on the island counter. “To his mother?”

            Francis’s gaze was soft on him as he leaned his chin on his hand. “She passed when Matthew was six.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “It was terminal, we knew it would happen.” Francis smiled again. “Matthew was still young. He doesn’t remember too much. He says it’s never really bothered him.”

            “It’s always been the two of you then?” Arthur asked, pouring hot water into his mug and returning to the table, across from Francis.

            “Yes. And I’m thankful for every minute.” Francis watched him take a sip and then asked, “Has it always been you and Alfred?”

            Arthur tapped on the ceramic. “It has. I adopted him myself, when I lived in New York. He was five. It was a long, hard process but he was mine. He was like my own blood, and he’s never seen me as anyone but his father.”

            “You’re lucky in that.”

            Arthur nodded, a small smile coming to his lips. “I am.”

            Arthur was sincerely glad his son was happy. Matthew made him happy – and he knew it because it was always ‘Matt this’ and ‘Matt that.’ To think he’d found it in Francis’s own son.

            And then it made him think. Here he was sitting in Francis’s kitchen at 10:30 at night drinking Francis’s tea. In the early days, Arthur would have called their frequent house visits purely competitive banter. Arthur thought he only wanted to show up the Frenchman.

            Somewhere along the line, their talk of rivalry and comebacks morphed into meeting for conversation’s sake. Truthfully, Arthur hadn’t had a good companion to talk with in a while and the more he talked with Francis, the more he looked forward to their next meeting.

            Sitting in front of him that very night Arthur, may have, actually, admitted to liking Francis. To himself, of course. When Francis’s blue eyes sparkled with the natural effervescence the man had, how could he not?

            Arthur swallowed, squeezing the mug in his hands. “Thank you, Francis, for making soup for Alfred. You didn’t need to.”

            “It was my pleasure.”

            “And thank you, for allowing me to use your kitchen and pantry. I’ll reimburse you the cost of the food.”

            Francis smiled and edged forward, slipping Arthur’s free hand into his own. “Nonsense. I won’t have it.”

            Arthur didn’t say anything in protest, but knew he’d slip the money under Francis’s door the next day.

            Arthur pulled his hand out of Francis’s and stood. He washed out the mug in the sink and set it to dry on the rack. He grabbed his coat off the chair back and leisurely made his way to the front door. Francis followed him.

            “Until next time, _cher_ ,” Francis said, opening the door for him.

            Arthur acted on impulse and brushed his lips feather-light on Francis’s cheek. “Good night,” he replied, and was walking away, out of the building and down the street before he let himself smile.

 

~

 

            Francis’s flat smelled like apple pie. That was Alfred’s doing, though. Everyone was allowed to request a dish to be served at Christmas dinner. That afternoon Alfred and Matthieu had been in the kitchen making the dough and peeling almost a dozen apples. Everyone could request a dish, but Francis had one rule – everything must be made from scratch.

            Matthieu’s choice was maple meringue cookies. With every addition of maple syrup – the best London could provide – added reverently to the batter, another spoonful or two found its way into Alfred’s mouth. More than a few times did the batter in the piping bag find its way dotted onto noses and fingers, then licked away with laughter and suggestive eyebrow wiggles.

            Arthur made a huge shepherd’s pie, their main course, and probably spent too much time at the market debating between one quality of lamb and another. And as Francis had accompanied him to the market that morning, he simply stood by and thought Arthur looked too precious giving every ingredient, every vegetable a strict physical examination.

            When the boys’ desserts were cooling on a rack placed on the counter and they vacated the kitchen, Arthur and Francis got to work. Francis donned his trusty apron – he never cooked without it – and Arthur simply rolled his shirtsleeves up.

            Francis made a myriad of appetizers, knowing Alfred and his insatiable hunger, and sides to go with dinner.

            His Brie en croûte was a big hit with Alfred.

            With the television on a low buzz and Alfred and Matthieu’s hushed conversations in the living room, Francis smiled. He watched Arthur hand-mash the peeled potatoes, admiring the way his forearms flexed with the effort.

            Francis poured them both a glass of champagne and handed him his glass when Arthur finished the job.

            Arthur huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Thank you,” he said, taking a generous sip. “Hardest part is done. I used to be able to make homemade mash without getting winded.”

            Francis laughed. “You did an excellent job, _cher_.”

            Arthur smiled proudly behind the rim of his glass.

            Francis made to leave the kitchen to use the bathroom but decided his bladder could wait. Alfred and Matthieu were taking full advantage of the mistletoe Francis strategically hung in the hallway – though he hadn’t hung it with his son in mind, but with Arthur. Francis didn’t think even a crowbar could fit between them; Matthieu’s arms wound around Alfred’s neck and Alfred’s arms wrapped tightly around Matthieu’s waist.

            Francis quickly about-faced and when Arthur ventured toward the living room Francis stopped him with his hands on his shoulders.

            “What are you doing? I need to ask Alfred where he put the carrots.”

            “You don’t need to go out there, _cher_. The carrots are over here, I was using them for the vegetable mélange.”

            “Francis, what’s going-”

            Francis gave him a quick peck on the lips, which effectively shut Arthur up. Francis rounded the counter to grab their champagne glasses. Arthur still stood in the middle of the kitchen, visibly flushing. Francis pushed his glass into his hand, smiling.

            Francis only kissed Arthur a few times now, but Arthur still flushed like a schoolgirl every time. Nobody would have guessed that Arthur was actually the one to kiss Francis first.

            “Tosser,” Arthur mumbled under his breath.

            Matthieu popped his head into the kitchen and said, “Papa, I’m going to show Alfred the rooftop.”

            “Have fun.”

            When the front door closed Arthur spun around and resumed his station at the cutting board. He was concentrating very hard on chopping the carrots into matchsticks.

            Francis moved closer, only to grab the champagne bottle and refill his glass. “Would you like some more?” he asked Arthur.

            “Yes, please,” Arthur said.

            Two more minutes passed in silence, the only sound the steady chopping of the knife.

            “Francis.”

            “Yes, _cher_?”

            Arthur put the knife down. Before Francis could blink, Arthur had his face in his hands and Arthur’s warm lips were on his. Francis kissed him, loving the nuances that made Arthur. And when he softened under his fingertips… _there_. There was the Arthur that cared with all his heart.

 

~

 

            “Is this even safe?” Alfred asked as they came to the rooftop.

            Matthew rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s perfectly fine.”

            It was snowing. Not dry enough to stick, but watching the snow glowing in the city light made Matthew sigh. Their breath puffed out in clouds as they looked around.

            Alfred straightened Matthew’s scarf and rubbed his gloved hands between his own gloved hands.

            Matthew laughed. “What are you doing?”

            “I don’t want you to freeze.”

            “You’re the one who got sick.”

            “And you bundled me up nicely this time,” Alfred said, turning his head in a model-esque pose to show the thick knit scarf Matthew himself had put on Alfred. “I just want to make sure _your_ hands don’t freeze.” He squeezed Matthew’s hands. “Your arms don’t freeze.” His hands trailed up his arms. “Your ears don’t freeze.” His hands covered Matthew’s ears like earmuffs. “And your lips don’t freeze.”

            Matthew saw it coming, but he kissed Alfred anyway.

            “You’re such a dork,” he said with a grin.

            Alfred grinned back. “Love you too.”

            Yes. It was love swirling in his chest. Matthew tugged on his hand, lacing their fingers together.

            “Come on, Al, let’s go eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for reading!  
> I also have to once again thank tumblr user trashcanada for making fanart of this story! It's amazing! You can find it on my tumblr, url: le-petit-fromage


End file.
